Summer of Spike
by aphelant
Summary: Written for LJ's Summer of Spike community: Over the course of the summer while Buffy is dead, Spike's relationships with the Scoobies change. A chaptered fic with drabbles inbetween.
1. Part I: Silent Recluse

She was gone.

Tears streaked down Spike's face again as the image of his beloved Buffy falling hundreds of feet to her death resurfaced behind closed eyes. He wrapped the blanket around his broken body and sobbed into his borrowed pillow.

Upstairs he could hear movement; Buffy's friends going about their daily business, pretending she wasn't dead, living a lie where there was no mourning vampire in the Summers' basement.

__

Flying through the air, golden hair streaming behind her, never more beautiful, never -

They were yelling now. Something about the Buffybot. The whelp was pacing, his heavy footfalls echoing in the emptiness around Spike's heart. "We need _someone_ to patrol!"

Quiet murmuring between the witches. Spike's eyes followed Xander's path on the ceiling. The front door opened and closed, Dawn's voice floated through the house.

The others stopped their argument, assumed crash positions, and went about pretending nothing was wrong. But it was all wrong.

__

Her body in a heaping, broken mess. He was too late. He'd failed. The only thing she'd ever asked of him, and he'd fai -

Spike's eyes stung again. His chest burned. He rolled over and buried his face in the sheets. Upstairs, the microwave was whirring. Dawn would be bringing him his dinner soon. He didn't want to eat, but Buffy's friends sent the Nibblet down with the blood 'cause they knew he couldn't say no to her.

Because he couldn't save her. Not when it counted.

__

Flying through the air, screaming Dawn's name, grasping at girders and scaffolding that was always just beyond his reach -

__

Falling so elegantly, so pure. She'd gotten her death wish, but what now?

He hoped Dawn wouldn't come. He wanted Red, or the whelp, someone he could lash out at, someone who would hate him. Spike wanted to be hated. Spike wanted to be hated by anyone but himself.

He would have died for her. But he fucked it all up.

__

They dragged him from Buffy's body, pleading with him. Dawn was crying for her, for him, for the impending sunrise. But he wouldn't leave 'til he knew for sure, 'til he felt her cold body.

It should have been him. And he would never forgive himself.


	2. Saviour

He dragged a weary hand across his face.

"'M not ready yet."

A put-upon sigh sounded from his side.

"You have to be."

Warm hands dragged him from the cot. He struggled, but he had no energy left, no fight.

A mug of micro-waved blood was pressed to his lips; the scent churned his stomach.

"No -"

But it was forced down his throat, burning him, healing him. Saving him.

Stronger now, Spike glared up at his saviour.

"Should've let me rot," he spat. "After what I've done…"

"Dawn still needs you," Giles reasoned. "And the world needs a warrior."


	3. Puss in Boots

Spike changed the channels abruptly; no infomercials for him tonight. He settled into an old black-and-white, something pitiful but appealing.

A soft brush against his hand drew his attention. "Well, if it isn't Puss in Boots," he muttered, petting the witches' cat. Miss Kitty Fantastico purred and cuddled closer.

"What, no fear? No loathing?"

She stared up at him with marble eyes.

"Snarky comebacks? Disappointment?"

She mewled and pawed him. He scooped her onto his lap and stroked her affectionately. Her rough tongue scraped his chin; she welcomed his cold hands behind her ears. Spike couldn't help falling in love.


	4. The Pool Game

"It's not fair; you get to use vampire reflexes and stuff," Xander complained.

"Then maybe you shouldn't 've bet money, hm?" Spike sunk another two balls in quick succession.

"You just steal it from me anyway. This way I get some guy time."

"Guy time?" Another three balls.

"The girls always want to do 'girly things', like watch chick flicks and read wedding magazines."

Spike grimaced at the thought.

"They never play pool or watch football. It's kinda nice to have a guy around. Even if it's _you_."

"Gee, thanks." Spike sunk the last ball and took the winnings.

"Anytime."


	5. Part II: Shared Exile

Spike waited in the Slayer's living room, biding his time. The tv. was on, spewing background noise and blasé colour. He sat on the couch, watching the clock, waiting for the signal...

"Got it!" Dawn cried as she raced down the stairs. "I knew I had black somewhere." She handed the bottle of varnish to him triumphantly.

"Thank God," he replied, "cos there was no way I'd wear any of your prissy red ones. Now come on, get over here."

The girl grinned and plopped herself cross-legged on the couch beside him. With a critical eye he held up the nearly full bottle of black nail polish, shook it, and nodded in satisfaction. "This'll do just fine."

Dawn snatched it out of his hands and set it off to the side. "Nuh-uh, I've gotta do your cuticles first."

Spike gave a put-upon sigh before handing her the little bag of cosmetic tools. Though he felt like a ponce for playing make-up with the Slayer's sister, he was the only one of the so-called Scoobies who seemed to be spending any time with the poor kid. It wasn't like he _wanted_ to, after all...

"Can we shut off this nancy-boy crap before my brains start leaking out my ears?" he demanded. Dawn giggled again, a sound so precious to Spike it was water in the vast desert of his heart. He tried hard to suppress the smile that desperately wanted to make its way onto his face.

"I like this nancy-boy crap," she retorted and turned up the volume. "Besides, it's the only thing on at this ungodly hour."

Spike glanced at the clock - midnight. Two hours till the Buffybot would be back from patrol with Willow and Tara. Two hours till he had to face reality. Two precious and too short hours to entertain normalcy by engaging in an activity that went against his entire nature - he would get a manicure.

"Yeah," he replied, but to what he wasn't quite sure.

"Hand me the bottle," Dawn said, and he automatically replied. His focus was elsewhere now, roaming around the room that held so many memories of Buffy and Joyce.

That's the table he'd first tasted Joyce's famous cocoa; that's where he'd gotten his first glimpse of the Nibblet, peeking through the bars of the railing; that's where Buffy invited him in, de-invited, and re-invited him; that's where he fell in love.

Spike suppressed a shudder when he thought of Buffy. He held in the cry of anguish that threatened to tumble from his dead lips. He fought the urge to grab Dawn and run far, far away from this godforsaken town. He blinked back the tears, swallowed his pride, and asked, "You done yet?"

Dawn cocked her head to the side, an unconscious imitation of her sister, and Spike smiled. No matter how long she'd been gone, or how much he missed her, a little bit of her was still here with him - his precious Nibblet.

She gave his pinkie one more swipe of the brush and nodded to herself. "I fudged it a bit," she admitted, "but I think it's okay now."

"Not like anyone 'cept the vamps I dust are gonna look at my nails. 'Oh, wonderful manicure you've got there Spike! Where can I get one for myself?'" He looked sidelong at her and gave one of his rare smiles. "'Oh, nowhere - just the Slayer's lil sis likes to pamper me a bit.' Can you imagine?"

"Nope, that's what makes it so funny. You, with a manicure!"

He elbowed her in the side. "'S your turn next, so don't make fun."

Dawn wiped the smile off her face and replaced it with a somber look of superiority. With a terrible English accent, she delicately placed her hand in his own and said, "Tally-ho William! It's nearly time for tea - pip pip and all that rot."

The two collapsed into giggles, the mystical Key and the Scourge of Europe, holding tightly to each other like they feared the laughter would explode their bellies. But really, it was to hold on to the levity, the freedom, for a little while longer.

The laughter subsided but Dawn remained securely attached to Spike's side. He wasn't complaining - warm human body nestled against him, unafraid, trusting. The next best thing to having Buffy, but really he loved Dawn just for being her. She was Buffy's sister, true, but the two had forged an unlikely friendship long before he had realized his love for the Slayer. The bond between them was real, made stronger by the loss of her family and the women whom he'd grown to love.

Joyce had been like a mother to him, and he could share Dawn's grief in that loss. And Buffy...sometimes he would still awaken from nightmares where he was seconds too late to catch her from falling, or where he was the one to push her, or where Dawn was the one to die. They were horrible, nearly unbearable, but then he'd remember his promise to Buffy, that he would protect her sister until the end of the world.

So here he was, holding his Nibblet with every ounce of love he had left, and he wouldn't let her go. Not for death, not for life, not for Angelus or Dru or those sodding Scoobies. He was her sole protector now, and he would not take that job lightly.

He listened as Dawn's breathing became deeper and more rhythmic and it finally succumbed to the patterns of sleep. With a tender hand he brushed the hair from her face and placed a soft kiss upon her forehead.

Willow and Tara would be home in less than an hour, and he would carry Dawn upstairs before then. But for this time inbetween, during their shared exile, he would hold her close and love her the only way he knew how.

"Till the end of the world, darling," he whispered. "Till the end of the world."


	6. Cookie Jar

Spike eyed the pig from across the room and carefully stalked towards it. Ten feet, five… He grasped it by the ear and tore its head off before plunging his hand inside, seeking the hidden treasure -

"Spike?"

The vampire whirled at the sound of Tara's voice, chocolate chip cookie in one hand, pink ceramic pig head in the other.

"Did I just catch you with your hand in the cookie jar?"

Spike glanced at the cookie, then at the witch. "Uh, no?" He stuffed the cookie in his mouth. She rolled her eyes as he slipped nonchalantly past her.


	7. Red

"You're angry."

Spike ignored her.

"You're angry at me?"

He played with his Zippo. "Maybe I just don't feel like talkin', Red."

"_Red_? We're back to that now?"

He sighed.

"It's just so impersonal! Like me calling you Blonde!"

The phone rang and Xander answered. "Magic Box!" He listened.

"Hey, Bleached Wonder!" Xander called. Spike glared pointedly at Willow.

"Does it really seem right to call you anything but 'Red' after all these years?" Spike asked.

Turning to Xander he demanded, "What is it, Whelp?"

"Tara wants to know if you'll be over for dinner."

"Tell Glinda it's a date."


	8. Penny for Your Thoughts

Anya showed Spike another swatch, this one green.

"That's putrid."

She frowned. "Really? I thought it was regal."

"And you thought the demons and the humans could sit together."

"Well, if they were even _remotely_ civilized there wouldn't be a problem!"

"I still think all your bridesmaids should just go nude."

A pause. "No unnecessary relinquishing of money on a dress you'll only wear once. Brilliant!" Anya began scribbling madly.

"Finally," he exclaimed, "a woman with sense!"

She dropped a penny on the table. "That's for services rendered. We should work together more often!"

"Penny for your thoughts," he mumbled.


	9. Part III: Sudden Longing

"I've seen the bloody Buffybot before -"

No. No, it can't be.

Falling through the air, like an angel, some celestial pirouette…

"I - I found her. Her hands…"

"I see." He reached out and touched Buffy's ragged, bloody hands. She flinched, from the contact or the pain or the reality of clawing out of her grave, he wasn't sure.

Vacant eyes staring up at him from her broken body, lips slightly parted, neck twisted at such an odd angle…

"Nibblet, why don't you get some gauze," Spike suggested. Dawn scurried back up the stairs, eager to help.

Their eyes met and Spike felt something shift in his chest. She seemed so distant, so empty. Lightly he tugged at her and she descended the last few steps to stand toe-to-toe with him.

"Spike," she said, as if questioning it was really him. He tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Yeah, luv."

Buffy frowned and licked her lips, hesitant to speak, but the pain in her eyes spoke volumes to him.

"Don't have to say anything," he promised, leading her to the couch where she gratefully sat down. They stared at each other for long moments, waiting for Dawn to return with bandages for her sister's hands.

"How -" Buffy coughed, "how long was I gone?"

I've come so far; I grieved for you, lived for you, died for you…does it change now? Am I worthless again?

"147 days yesterday. 148 today. 'Cept today doesn't count, does it?"

She didn't reply, merely squeezed his hands in her own.

"How long was it for you?" he asked. There was something in her gaze that disturbed him, something he'd seen in Dru's eyes after a vision. Something not quite here yet.

"Longer, I think." She glanced around the room. "Longer."

Dawn appeared at his shoulder. "Here. I didn't know what you'd need, so I brought everything I could find." She placed a laundry basket filled with Band-Aids and peroxide and surgical gauze at his feet. Buffy stared blankly at it.

Spike began sifting through the supplies and shooting concerned glances at the Slayer.

"How did I get here?" she whispered.

Dawn exchanged frightened glances with Spike and sat beside her sister. She wrapped a protective hug around her while he cleaned and bandaged her wounds.

"Doesn't matter how, pet. Just matters that you are."

* * *

He was smoking on the front porch when her friends rushed up the front walk. Willow stopped abruptly as he stepped from the shadows and flicked the flaming nub of his Morley into the black night. Spike's duster swung menacingly as he clomped into full view. 

"'Lo, Red."

Xander and Anya fidgeted behind her nervously, and Tara stood slightly aloof. So it had been her Willow's idea, then.

"Spike," Willow nodded and made to move past him. He stepped into her path, effectively blocking the front door of the Summers' house.

Fear flashed behind her eyes momentarily before smug superiority settled there instead. "It's been a long night - I kinda just want to go to bed."

With lightning reflexes he gripped her throat and slammed her into a porch beam. Her hands flew through the air, glowing with magic, and he caught her wrists above her head. Xander rushed forward to help his best friend, but Spike vamped-out and growled menacingly at him.

When he turned back to Willow, his features were human again. "What did you do, witch?" he demanded.

She frowned and struggled against his hold. "Nothing! We didn't do anything."

"Then explain to me why Buffy's crying in her bed upstairs!"

Willow froze, eyes wide. The vampire and the witch stared at each other, both seeking lies in the heart of the other.

She tucked the book into her bag, like she was hiding it. He never thought anything of it at the time, but…

Disgusted, he threw her to the ground.

"How could you?" he asked, tears shining in his eyes. "You didn't tell me. You didn't tell _Dawn_! Don't you think we should've known? Don't we get a say?"

"We need her," Xander implored. "We can't do this without her."

"You're wrong," Spike ground out. "It's the way things are. One Slayer dies, another is called - it's been that way for centuries! You can't go messing with the balance of nature this way!"

"But another Slayer wasn't called," Anya argued.

"That's what _we're_ here for."

"Spike," Willow pleaded, "you of all people should be happy! She's back - Buffy's back! You don't have to mourn anymore -"

The front door opened and Buffy stepped outside. Shiny tracks glinted on her cheeks and her eyes were swollen from crying. Everyone turned to face her, and she contemplated each of her friends before speaking.

"You brought me back?" she asked. The four Scoobies smiled at her.

"Yeah, we did," Willow replied.

Buffy tilted her face toward Spike's and fisted the leather on his arm. "You didn't know?"

"No, pet."

She looked at her friends once more before nodding. "I understand."

* * *

Spike crashed into the wall of the training room and felt something break in his back. 

"Bloody buggering -"

She was on him in an instant, pinning him to the ground and pressing her stake roughly against the fabric of his shirt just above his heart. Buffy grinned down at him squealed.

"I did it! I killed you! You are _so_ dust."

He couldn't help but laugh at her childlike excitement. She bounced to her feet and hauled him up after her, and he groaned in protest.

Concern tugged her delight into a frown. "Did I hurt you?"

"Yeah, I think maybe something broke."

Her hands alighted on his chest and back, searching through the cotton and skin and muscles for signs of cracked bones. When her fingers brushed against his nipple he groaned.

"Oh, God!" she exclaimed, mistaking his pleasure for pain, "I think it's your ribs."

"Buffy -"

"Here, sit down, I'll get the bandages…" She man-handled him to the bench and tugged at his shirt, ignoring his protests.

Through the pleasure-fog of her hands on his skin, he tried to stay her. "It'll heal, really. No worries."

Buffy bent down and looked him in the eye. "I hurt you. I'll fix it." Her eyes pleaded with him, begging Spike to understand that this wasn't just about his own pain - it was about hers too.

So he sat back and let her tend to him, took the tape from her shaking hands when she could no longer tear it herself. When they were done, she collapsed on the bench at his side and hunched over in exhaustion.

"You okay?" he asked, tugging his shirt back over his head. She made a vague gesture with her hands before nodding.

"Yeah, I just - I don't know." She frowned and scuffed her shoes against the concrete floor. "There's still stuff I can't deal with yet."

"Like pain?"

She met his eyes. "Yeah."

The training room door opened and Willow's head peeked in. Spike visibly stiffened and all but closed himself off. Automatically Buffy's hand reached out to rest reassuringly on his arm.

"Hey," Willow ventured, stepping slightly into the room.

"Hey," Buffy replied, meeting her friend's gaze head-on. "Can I help you?" she pursued, letting Willow know in clear and certain tones that her intrusion was unwelcome.

The witch bristled at that, jealousy and betrayal and rage rushing through her petite form before some inner calm quelled it. "Are you gonna be home for dinner?"

"Spike and I will stop by, sure."

Willow frowned. "Spike?" Her eyes ticked over him. "I thought he was patrolling tonight."

A warning growl rumbled through Spike's chest at Willow's blatant play of dominance. Who did she think she was, telling him how to spend his evening -

"I invited him. Is that a problem?" Buffy's chin raised slightly, her trademark expression of defiance. Spike watched the power struggle between the two women with interest. Here was the spark that was missing, here was the Slayer he knew and loved.

It made him proud and a little bit horny that she had gotten her spunk back fighting for him.

Willow quailed a bit at the force behind Buffy's glare. "I just - I mean - what I meant was -"

"It's still my house," Buffy interrupted. "And I let you live there. So don't dictate who can and cannot come to dinner, Willow."

Her eyes lowered and a shock of red hair swept in front of her pixie face. "Sorry. Um, I'll go tell Tara we'll need a vamp-friendly course." She popped out of the room as quickly as she had arrived, and Buffy deflated once again in her absence.

"Everything's a power struggle with her lately," she admitted and tentatively leaned her head on Spike's shoulder. He froze at first, then relaxed and wrapped a gentle arm around her slender form.

"Well, you definitely won that argument, pet. Hands down."

Buffy sighed. "I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of everything, but…" She reluctantly left his embrace to heft a battleaxe into her strong grip.

"I refuse to be beaten."

* * *

Sudden awareness, crowding her cobwebbed mind with dust and dark and putrid rotting flesh. She could feel her cells dividing.

Tried to breathe but there was no air, tried to scream but she couldn't remember how. Her fingers clawed at her prison, chunks of satin and foam falling into her gasping mouth.

She punched and kicked even as her muscles were knitting back together. Her body protested, her lungs rebelled, her soul mourned. This was Hell. Surely it was.

Pounding through solid chestnut now, pounding in her ears, her own blood splashing her face, pumping in her throat, beating, pulsing. So very wrong.

The dirt clung to her like static, in her nose, under her tongue, beneath her bloody, shattered nails. Her hands found purchase in the grass and she pulled herself up, but it was too late, she was done, she was collapsing into herself, the grave was in her heart now, she couldn't escape, she couldn't breathe, it was closing in, suffocating, pressing into her on all sides, squeezing, crushing, breaking.

The maggots crawled across her skin and she fell back into the hole she had dug. They forced their way into her ears and her nose and between her dry lips and between her legs and they were killing her, whatever was still alive and she fought but they were relentless and she wasn't strong, she was so weak, so helpless and it was killing her, killing her, she was dead inside and -

Buffy screamed as she woke. Her clothes clung to her sweaty skin and she drank down huge gulps of air. Every night was the same, waking from some horrid nightmare that was really a memory.

She staggered to her feet and gripped her dresser hard enough to crack the frame. Wild eyes stared back from her mirror and she was so tempted to crack the flimsy shell. But she stayed the violence in her veins and concentrated on breathing, on living, on breaking out of her fear.

Struggling out of her sticky nightgown she knew this had to end. She had to find peace somewhere, if only for her own sanity.

She didn't think she could survive waking in her coffin again.

* * *

It dug its slimy fingers roughly into her skin as they struggled across the cemetery. Buffy's grip slipped from it's gel-covered arms repeatedly, and it was beginning to crush her ribs. 

"Hey Sluggo, I think we got off to a bad start." She slammed her fist into what she hoped was its throat and the demon staggered back, releasing her from its gooey clutches.

"These clothes? Designer. Your life?" Buffy plunged her stake into its chest. "Over."

The slime demon screamed as orange sap oozed from its wound. It reached for Buffy again and caught her hair in its fingers. Revenge fuelled its rage, but the Slayer would have none of it. In a few neat moves she had broken its arm and pinned it to the ground.

Viciously she ripped the stake from its body. The demon screamed before she snapped its neck.

"Maybe I should send a memo out to all you demon types," she muttered to the slowly disintegrating corpse. "You can't kill me." She stood and wiped clumps of slime from her clothes. "They'll just keep bringing me back."

Buffy turned her gaze to the sky, taking in the wide open space between the stars and the planets and the astronauts. At times like these she felt so small, so insignificant. Here was one girl in all the world, chosen to fight vampires, demons, and other forces of darkness. Here she was, the newest incarnation, and she was finished with the lies and the threats and the failure and the pain.

She was new, she was reborn. She was a goddamn phoenix. This was her destiny, and she would meet it head on. No more quitting. No more dying. No more escaping.

"You hear me world? I'm not running anymore."

* * *

It was nearly four a.m. when Buffy came home from patrol. After the slime demon there had been a nest of vampires, a lone Fyarl, and a pair of munchkin-sized Boudiccas, all estrogen and pointy objects. 

She felt surprisingly energized, though probably less from the workout and more from her decision to live life her own way. It was refreshing and somehow…_liberating_ to finally feel totally in control. She was decision girl now, and it made her smile.

Climbing the stairs to the bathroom she pondered this new feeling. It wasn't the peace she'd gone in search for, but it felt pretty darn close. Like there was just one more element that would finish the mosaic of her 'perfect life'. She found it funny that white picket fences and 2.5 kids didn't show up on her 'List Of Things To Do Before I Die - Again'.

Though the slime from the ooze demon had eventually decomposed, Buffy was still sweaty from all the slaying. A long, hot shower sounded like just the thing to -

She turned the knob on the bathroom door, but it was locked. Buffy frowned at the offending ball of metal and rapped on the hulking oak door.

"Can't a bloke get a mo' of privacy 'round here?" replied the voice on the other side.

Buffy paused. _Spike?_

"Spike?"

A rattle of glass against porcelain. "Buffy?"

The door clicked as it unlocked and creaked as it swung open. She found herself face to chest - _smooth, creamy, toned, pale and lickable _- with the blond vampire. Make that _very_ blond.

"Was just dying my hair," he offered in explanation. She glanced past him at the cluttered sink before her gaze was inevitably drawn back to his bare chest. And naked hips. And towel-clad waist. Oh, to be that towel…

Stop it! Bad thoughts, Buffy. Very bad! No naked Spike thoughts for you.

"Something on your mind, pet?"

You. Naked.

"Um, no?"

He frowned at her. "You want the shower?"

"Yeah," she replied, but made no move to enter. She was too busy looking at his bare feet. "Why are you so naked?"

Her eyes widened. His mouth quirked.

"Well," he said, silk caressing every word as it wrapped itself around Buffy's heart, "I hear most women prefer me this way." A seductive hand ghosted over her arm and she had to fight back a sigh.

Where is this coming from? she thought, breaking out of her Spike-induced stupor and struggling to remember why his sexy body was wrong to want.

Where is this coming from? he thought, sensing the desire coming off her in waves, as confused at her sudden change as she.

"You're a pig, Spike," she retorted, retreating to the other side of the hall, gazing up at him with mild disdain etched across her features. The spell was broken, and he had only himself to blame.

"I'm sorry." For being crude? For wanting her? For not having a pulse? He didn't know why, but he was sorry.

She wanted to tell him about the ooze demon, about her newfound inner strength, about her new start at life. She wanted to tangle her fingers in his white-blond hair and explore the delicacies of his mouth. She wanted him to press her roughly against the wall.

God, she wanted him. But there was one thing stopping her from taking what she knew he was willing to give her.

"Do you still love me?" she asked.

He froze. They hadn't spoken of his declaration since Buffy's miraculous return - there had never been a good time to bring it up. Besides, she had rejected him, and that was the end of their love story. Right?

"Of course I do. Never stopped." Spike's blue eyes bored into her, piercing the delicate flesh around her heart. It was almost painful, his admission, and suddenly Buffy felt like she couldn't breathe.

"I can't do this," she gasped and turned down the hallway, seeking refuge in the confines of her bedroom. But as she reached the door he called her name. She paused and waited, though she didn't dare face him for fear she would break in two.

"What do you want from me?" he begged. She kept handing him hope, then dashing it against the rocks of her fear. "I'll stay by your side 'til the bitter end, but…I need to know where I stand."

This was all wrong. Guys didn't stick around for her, and they definitely didn't dare _ask_ what she wanted from them. They crushed her heart in clenched fists, left her when she needed them most, and deluded themselves into thinking life with her would be perfect.

But not Spike. He was here, in her house, asking her to be honest with him. Could she do that? After all these years of lying, could she possibly remember how to tell the truth?

"I'm not running anymore," she reminded herself in a whisper. He was her friend, her confidante. The others had accepted him into their ragtag group, Dawn had welcomed him into their broken little family, and day by day, he had earned a place in her heart.

She looked back at him. Eyes so blue they seemed unnatural, skin so white it could only be marble. But it was how he wore his emotions, right there on the plump curve of his bottom lip, and in the loose curl of his hair, and in his clenched jaw and corded muscle and unneeded breath that decided for her.

Had she really thought she could resist the attraction?

In seconds she was upon him, tasting those tempting lips of his, crushing her soft body against his hard one. His hands cupped her bottom and lifted her before pushing her against the wall and grinding against her.

Spike growled when her tongue plunged into his mouth; Buffy mewled when his thumb rubbed her clit through her jeans. And then suddenly she was stumbling to her feet and he was retreating into the bathroom, eyes wide, lips red, and the bulge beneath his towel told her he was very aroused indeed.

Confused gaze met concerned one, and they stared at each other across the threshold of the doorway.

"What are you doing?" he asked. Buffy frowned and moved towards him.

"_This_ is what I want, Spike," she replied. Her warm fingers tangled in the curls at the base of his neck and drew his face closer to her own. "I want to live my life, not worry about what everyone else thinks, and be happy."

When his hands rested on her hips she gave him a pleased smile. "I want a man who won't run away, who will make me see how beautiful I am inside and out, who will pick me up when I've fallen, accept the Slayer in me as well as the girl, love my sister and my friends…"

He gave her a shy smile. "You think I can do all that?"

"You already have," she whispered, and their lips met softly, tenderly, in the centre of their passion.

* * *

**A/N: In the NC-17 version, here lies the graphic sex scene. If you are age 17 or over, or promise not to sue me, you can read the full version here: http: (slash slash) aphelant. tripod. com/ sudden (underscore) longing. htm (but, of course, without the spaces and all the correct symbols that won't, for some reason, work in this editor). Some things happen in it that I believe further the Spike/Buffy relationship, and without it, makes the rest of the ending seem...trite? Self-serving? Anyway, yes.**

* * *

She blinked the sleep from her eyes and squinted up at her closed curtains. They glowed with afternoon sunlight and she could feel the warmth on her skin. A heavy arm tightened around her waist and her eyes snapped open. 

I spent the night with Spike last night!

Buffy turned her head until she could see his face. He looked so peaceful, so innocent, like all the evil inside him, whatever there was left, drained away as he slumbered. And then another shock hit her.

I didn't wake up in my coffin.

Her smile rivalled the sun in brightness and intensity, and she forced herself not to disturb the sleeping vampire. _Her_ sleeping vampire.

It seems he was the missing piece - or, more accurately, his love. She felt new, whole, and this man, this vampire, this ex-mortal-enemy now friend-and-lover, had helped make her that way.

She cuddled into his embrace, enjoying the feeling of his normally cold skin warmed with her own body heat. Buffy placed a kiss to Spike's brow and settled her arms possessively around him.

She wasn't running anymore. And she wasn't letting go.


End file.
